Smoke And Sex
by PersephonesNauticalNun
Summary: I laugh, because it's so wrong, because it's so right. Oneshot.


**Author's Notes**

_So… yeah. Don't ask me where this came from. I don't even know myself. Not my usual kind of thing, but I enjoyed writing it, and it was a good break in writing the other two stories. Have fun with the darkness! Oh, and this is a oneshot, and I will not be continuing. Period._

**Smoke And Sex**

**By Persephone's Nautical Nun**

The club is dark and suffocating when I move inside, even darker since I'm wearing sunglasses like some kind of idiot. I tell people it's because I'm so sensitive to light, and I laugh because it's so wrong, because it's so right. I make sure to wear them close to my face, so that no matter what angle you looked at me from, you could never see my eyes. All the black eyeliner in the world could never hide the dark circles that have become a permanent fixture on my once glowing face.

The girls like it, though. At least, the girls here. I've lost count of how many times the girls have swooned, and told me how much they like a little mystery. I'm probably the only blonde head here, in this tiny spot in the world set aside for the strange culture that's a mix of techno and Goth.

It works for me, though – the clash of styles. It's so inexplicably wrong, and dissonant, that it's actually beautiful, and wonderful. Besides, I doubt these kids would be grinding on each other the way they are if it were strictly heavy metal pounding through the walls. They secretly long for the upbeat techno synthesizers, but they have their badass images to uphold, and sparkly, glittery outfits are not what they're all about.

No, they're about being misunderstood and wreaking havoc on the elderly. I can hang with that, because I know that none of them really do understand, regardless of the fact that this gathering is supposed to be some perverted form of reaching out.

I like to think I'm giving them more ammunition for their angsty poems, and dark paintings. I like to think of myself as the seed of light in all the dark in this place.

But, that isn't true, because even though my hair doesn't fit their profile, my uniform does. I never go out in outlandish getup – there's never chains hanging off my pants, or piercings marring my face. But, it's black. It's always black.

I ignore the moving mass of bodies on the dance floor, moving like one entity, and shove my way towards the bar. The regulars move out of my way, knowing how easily I snap at people who just stand around, blocking my path. I nod once towards the bartender, and I'm quickly rewarded with my alcohol. How this place hasn't been shut down for serving to underage kids is beyond me, but I'm not going to be complaining, tonight.

The bartender, a gruff man somewhere in his early thirties, knows not to question me. I'm not looking for a therapist, here. He tried one time, and, well… it didn't end well.

One, two, three shots, and the burning doesn't even register. The alcohol sits heavily in my stomach, but there's no other hint that it's there. I know I'll feel it in a minute, but that doesn't matter to me. I'm feeling particularly adventurous tonight, and gulp down a fourth.

I move to the middle of the dance floor, ignoring the girl sitting next to me at the bar, offering to buy me a drink. That's not where my connections are made. I'm not interested in talking. I'm vaguely aware that someone had decided to remix a Metallica song, but push the useless thought out of my mind as my body starts to move.

Bodies are moving against mine, slick with sweat, and I'm having a hard time knowing exactly whose I'm covered in. Some of it's mine, some of it's that boy's over there, and some of it's the girl's who just grabbed me by the hips, grinding herself into me. Yes, this is what I came here for. I make a quick sweep of the room, taking in boys dancing with girls, boys dancing with boys, and girls dancing with girls. It's not a big deal here, and I bring my arms up around this faceless girl's neck, pulling her even closer to me.

The bodies around us are so closely packed that we don't even need to touch each other in order be pressed, and molded as one, but we do. We touch, because, God, this is what I need.

Slimy fingers – with what, I don't know, or care – slide under my shirt and begin to trace patterns across my bare back. I let out a heated sigh that's lost in the crowd, but she sees the heave of my chest and grins, moving her hand higher, and coming in contact with the horrible gunshot wound on my back. Oh, it's more than healed by now, but the scar's going to be there forever. I smile inwardly as her grin becomes bigger. The battle wound turns her on, just as it does all the other girls in here, just as I pretend to be turned on by their self-inflicted scratches.

She starts to trace the contours of the scar tissue, and my head bows a little. Yes, touch me. And she does. Her other hand slides down my thigh, raking her nails along the fabric of my pants, and her lips are pressed roughly against my neck, teeth sinking into my flesh.

And then the pulsing bodies around us are gone, and I'm pressed against the cold brick of a grubby backroom, with fingers roughly working inside me. It's dirty, and hard, and just how I like it, and just how it's supposed to be. Yet, when I come, I'm calm, and docile, and it happens without climax. She's looking at me expectantly, either to explain myself, or return the favor, but I feel like doing neither. Without sparing her a glance, I push my way past the other couples doing the same thing we were just doing, past the dancing mass of life, and into the somehow fresh summer air.

It's hot. Too hot, yet somehow, it feels so much cooler out here than it did in the club. Smoke billows around the streets, probably from all the drugs being taken around here. In fact, I get a little buzz from just breathing.

When the streets are no longer filthy, and some sense of civilization has crept its way into my surroundings, I pull out my cigarettes, not quite done with being self-destructive tonight. I smoke in slow, long drags, bent on letting the smoke do its worst. I can take it. And then the cigarette's gone, and I'm turning onto my street.

I've gotten very good at climbing, and tonight is no different, as I scale the drain pipe up to my window. I push it open and enter my house effortlessly, confident that I didn't wake a soul.

She's on my bed, waiting for me. She always is. She's never here when I leave, yet somehow, she always makes it here before I come back. I don't think any of my family knows she's been sleeping with me since prom. I can't blame her, though. I wouldn't want to stay at Ashley's either. Yet, I still don't know why she doesn't just go back to Baltimore. At least she can get away.

"Did you have fun?" she asks, not bothering to look up from her fingers tracing patterns on my bed spread.

I shrug, knowing she can feel it, and knowing no other explanation is needed, but I give one, anyway. "Just like any other night."

She nods once and settles down on her side of the bed as I slip out of my clothes. I used to be such a prude, always having to wear big pajama bottoms and a t-shirt to sleep in. Now, I have no problem sleeping in my underwear, even though there's someone else in the same bed. She doesn't seem to mind, so I don't bother changing my routine.

I slip into bed beside her, and turn off the light next to me. I few moments pass and I believe she's fallen asleep. That is, until I hear her mumble a sleepy, "You smell like smoke and sex."

"Yeah," I say, not bothering to turn to her. She's falling asleep. There's no point in starting an actual conversation. Even if I wanted to, what would we possibly talk about? "I guess I should have taken a shower."

"Don't worry about it," she says with a yawn. Shortly after, her breathing evens out, and this time I know she's asleep.

Without another thought, I quickly follow.


End file.
